Hopeless Hope
by Marius blowthebarricade
Summary: The June rebellion of 1832 is drawing near, and Enjolras prepares to lead the student revolutionaries into battle. Yet, soon Combeferre comes to realize that there is something terribly wrong with his leader and best friend Enjolras. Enjolras says it is nothing, a cold. But Combeferre fears his friend may meet his death before he even steps foot on the battlefeild.


**Today is June 5, 2015. I almost forgot that today is Barricade Day, and I only remembered when I saw another fanfiction writer post a one-shot today.** **So, this is a short story I wrote some time ago but did not yet post.** **Well, I finally did it! My first one shot, which if you know me, it is nearly impossible for me to write anything short. So, this is not exactly short, and I cannot thank you enough to all those who read it!** **I hope you all enjoy it, and please let me know what you think about it!**

 **Thank you all who are reading this. I could never do any of this without all of you. Your support, and encouragement, and kindness is what makes this possible. Love you all beyond measure.**

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~Something Wrong~

Water is a strange thing.

Colorless, stainless, not dirtied or contaminated by anything. How can anyone describe the taste, the smell, the nature of something so clean, so precious, so pure? Water falls from the sky in droplets of rain like the tears of the angels. It singings hymns of praise to the Creator as it rushes over smooth stones at the bottoms of streams. It is poured over the head of the Lord's child, and it is called holy. It anoints, purifies, baptizes. Water, cold, clean, pure, gives life to the dying earth. To trees, plants, animals, and men, alike. Life needs water to continue. God gives water to the world so that it continues living.

There is, of course, water that has been muddied at the bottoms of lifeless pounds; deep pools infected by the filth that drains off of the dirty streets when it rains; rivers cursed to run red winding like slithering serpents through empty fields after a battle had ended. The corpses cannot be seen lying still, face down in the earth, concealed at the feet of tall grass or golden wheat. One only knows that the bodies are there, because the river running through this field has turned red.

There is water that had been cursed by God. Moses touched his staff to the Nile River, and all the water in Egypt, even that protected in the golden jars of the pharaoh, became blood. Water gives life, but there is a time when it takes life. The Red Sea opened to save the Hebrew's from death's grasp, but when the sea closed again, crushing tides fell over Pharaoh's army, wrecking, breaking, drowning, suffocating, killing him and all of his followers. It rained for forty days and forty nights, and all living creatures that did not take refuge in the arc of Noah but remained on the earth were killed. The waves of the sea can crush, the currents of the ocean can drown, rain from the sky can flood, water below the ice can freeze; water is capable of killing. With water, God gives life and pours of His wrath on the world. Water can be cursed. It turns into filth, dirt, blood, or poison. Sometimes, God curses the water, and water is no longer pure. God created a perfect race called man. But man fell and was no longer pure. Now he is cursed, as well.

Paris, France, 1832. A young man was lying on his back, his head rested against the tub's edge behind it, his eyes closed, his face at peace as if in sleep, and his body remained still below the surface of still water. This water was not cursed. It was clear and clean. Before he got into the tub and eased his body beneath its glassy surface, the water was heated over a stove in iron pots. So when shivering he stripped off his clothing and got in, it was warm and smoothing against his bare body. This water enveloped him like a soft blanket. It eases the tension and stiffness in his muscles, tended to the weakness of his body, was gentle and comforting against the soft flesh over his belly . His belly was sore, aching with a low continuous pain, sometimes experiencing sharp pains like stabbings of a knife's cold blade.

Now, the warmth was fading, and the water was beginning to turn cold. The young man did not move. He did not care. He did not want to get up. He wanted time, if only a brief time, an hour, a minute, to rest and to gather his strength, his will, and his courage. It would take all three of these if he was to go on. He was so exhausted. So weak. He would not admit it to himself, but deep in the dark shadows of his heart, he knew the truth. Everyday, he could feel the strength fading from his muscles and bones. Day by day, his body was weakening. _He_ was becoming weaker. Only his spirit remained strong.

An abrupt knock came upon the wooden door, surprising and startling the boy. He opened his eyes. "Enjolras!" a voice called from beyond the closed door. "Enjolras, it has been thirty minutes. You should get out now."

Enjolras waited only a few seconds longer, allowing himself to enjoy the water for a final moment. He drew a deep breath into his lungs and let out a heavy sigh. Then, his hands took a hold on the sides of the tub, and he pulled himself up. As his body submerged out from the water and the cold air hit his bare skin, a tremble passed through his veins, traveling through his body like blood. Being careful not to slip, he slowly stood and stepped out of the tub. At once, he reached for the towel that had been set out for him and wrapped it around his trembling body. He spent a few minutes longer drying and then dressing his body. Running the towel over his smooth, fair skin, soaking up the dampness and water like dewdrops upon his body; drying his long, beautiful locks of golden hair so that it rested in damp curls around his face. He put on the loose trousers and the flowing long-sleeved shirt that he would wear to bed tonight. It was getting late. The sun had already set, but in the last days of May, a dim glow still lingered on the horizon. He guessed it was around seven thirty. Darkness was closing in over the earth. He bathed in candle light.

Enjolras blew out the candle, and when he opened the door and stepped out into his bedroom, a young man of about his own age, perhaps a few years older, was standing just outside, waiting for him. As soon as Enjolras appear in the entrance of the door, his friend came forward and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

Enjolras did not look well. Anyone who saw him in the street would not have noticed, and would have presumed the handsome young man to be perfectly healthily. Any young woman who saw him would have found him extremely attractive and alluring, and she would have watched him with loving and longing, perhaps lusting, eyes. But Combeferre, his best friend, could see that Enjolras was not himself. He was not well. Enjolras's skin was paler than usual, his cheeks too colorless, and the faint grey shadow that befalls those who are sickly or dying was visible upon his friend's face. Still, it was his eyes that bother Combeferre the most. Always so fully of life, of passion, of fire… this light was still visible in Enjolras's eyes, but dark lines hung below them, betraying him that he was ill; and although Combeferre could only vaguely notice, Enjolras's eyes, themselves, were darker, colder, emptier than they normally were. The fire that burned in his eyes had not gone out but it had dimmed.

"Enjolras, you need to get in bed. You need to rest," Combeferre said, as he pulled the blanket more tightly around his friend's shoulders.

"Do not be silly, Combeferre," Enjolras replied, speaking as if unconcerned and certain. His voice was still just as strong and clear as it always was. That, at least, was a good sign. "I will be fine. Do not worry about me."

But Combeferre was worried. He was not a doctor, but he was studying in medical school to become one. He knew a fair bit about doctoring and about illnesses. He knew the difference between a healthy man and a man whose life was at stake. He was not sure exactly what condition is friend was in, whether he really would be fine or whether he needed to be hospitalized, but he knew that his best friend Enjolras was not well. He frowned at his friend for a moment, unsure how to respond. Enjolras was stubborn. He would not give in easily. "How are you feeling?" he finally decided to ask. "Any better? Do you think the fever is gone?"

"I think so, yes. It has defiantly gone down, if it is not gone entirely."

"May I…"

Enjolras nodded curtly, and Combeferre gently laid his hand upon the young man's forehead. He sighed in relief, realizing that the fever had, indeed, gone down greatly. "Good," he said, removing his hand. "You still feel warmer than normal, I think, but your temperature has defiantly decreased."

"The warm water helped a lot," Enjolras answered indifferently.

Combeferre nodded slowly, still looking at his friend with concern. "And your stomach?"

"It is better," he answered at once.

But Combeferre was skeptical. He frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure, Combeferre. It is nothing to worry about."

"You do not know that."

"Yes, I do. Please…" A soft smile appeared on Enjolras's stern, serious, and stony face. It was rare to see him smile. "Do not worry about me, Combeferre. We have more important things to trouble ourselves with."

"No, Enjolras. My friend is more important than—"

"Than the Revolution? Than the people? Than France, Combeferre? Than freedom!?" He shook his head vigorously, and fire could be seen blazing behind the sky-blue color of his eyes. "No, Combeferre, no one man is more important than what we are fighting for. Is one man more important than all of the people of France?"

"Enjolras…" Combeferre sighed. He knew Enjolras would never agree with him. "I understand," he finally said, knowing his friend would continue arguing until said this. "But we cannot have a rebellion if we do not have someone to lead us."

Enjolras was the leader. He was the chief. He was serious, strong, brave, passionate, severe, ready to fight, ready to die for that which he was fighting for. Combeferre was his right hand. The guide, his councilor, his advisor, his most trusted ally, his closest follower, and his best friend. He was softer, gentler, kinder than Enjolras. While Enjolras's passion and fire sometimes drove him to the point of rashness, Combeferre acted with reason, with logic, and with compassion. When Enjolras drew a gun, Combeferre warned him not to pull the trigger unless he had no other options. Beyond Enjolras, the Chief, and Combeferre, the guide, there were eight others, ten of them in all. All of them were young, and most of them were students, like Enjolras and Combeferre. They were the Friends of the ABC, as they called themselves. They were a secret rebel group, and Enjolras was their leader. It was their intentions to rally the people and start a rebellion to reclaim freedom for France and for its people. All they waited for now was the spark that would kindle the fire in the hearts of the citizens.

"Do not be ridiculous, Combeferre," Enjolras blew off the comment. "I am not even that sick. It is probably only a cold. I will be better by Saturday." Tonight was Wednesday, May 30.

Combeferre did not agree with this. He did not think that Enjolras merely had a cold. Enjolras only told him tonight after their meeting with the Friends of the ABC in the Café Musain that he was ill, and that was because Combeferre practically forced it out of him. For over the last week, Combeferre thought Enjolras did not look well, but every time he asked him if he felt alright, Enjolras responded as if he did not know why the question had been asked. But tonight, Enjolras looked and felt worse than he had all week. It was especially obvious, because throughout their meeting Enjolras had disappeared several times into the bathroom. The other boys did not seem to notice, but Combeferre had. Once when Enjolras had been absent for nearly twenty minutes, Combeferre went to the closed door of the bathroom with the intension to check on him, and through the wood that separated them, he could hear Enjolras coughing and gagging, making some horrible choking sound in the back of his throat. A moment later, Combeferre realized that that man was throwing up. "Enjolras!?" he called anxiously and he pounded rapidly on the door. "Enjolras, are you alright!?"

"I'm fine!" Enjolras's angry voice—although much weaker than his normal voice and somewhat hoarse—snapped in reply after Combeferre heard him finish heaving another time. "Let me alone! Can a man have no privacy!?" So Combeferre reluctantly went away and left him alone. When Enjolras returned to his friends some minutes later and began speaking about the Republic, they could not have guessed that there was anything wrong with him. Only Combeferre knew.

After the meeting when all of the other boys had left, Combeferre addressed Enjolras, and at length, his friend told him the truth. For over a week Enjolras had not been well. He had been experiencing tiredness, weakness, head aches, pain of the stomach, diarrhea, and vomiting, and when he allowed Combeferre to check his vital signs, his friend had barely touched his wrist to check his pulse when he cried out, "My Lord, Enjolras! You are so hot!" In a panic, he roughly laid a hand upon Enjolras's forehead, and said with fear, "You have a high fever!" Enjolras refused to go to the hospital or see a doctor, but he agreed to let Combeferre accompany him home so he could try to get the fever to go down.

No, Combeferre knew that Enjolras was not well. The fever alone could kill him if it was not kept under control. But when Enjolras said this, assumed him that he was be alright, he sounded so sure, so certain, so honest. Combeferre could not help but believe him. His heart sighed in relief. "Alright," he finally agreed. "But you still need to rest. You should go to bed now. It is getting late anyway."

Enjolras let out a heavy sigh, breathing through his nose, and he looked away. He gazed silently through the window and watched the last light of the sun fade over Paris. The sky was becoming dark, the color of night, and twilight embraced the earth in its mysterious grasp. "Very well," he finally agreed. Turning back to his friend, he went on, "I will see you tomorrow then in the café."

Combeferre nodded hesitantly but added, "Do not come if you are not feeling well enough, Enjolras. Marius and I can lead the meeting, if you—"

Enjolras dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. "I will be fine. So I shall see you tomorrow."

"Alright," Combeferre finally agreed with a sigh. "But you have to promise to let me know if you start feeling worse, again."

"I will."

"It is a promise, Enjolras." When Enjolras did not respond, a blade of fear his Combeferre's heart and he firmly went on, "This is serious, Enjolras! You might not think so, but it is. Your fever was so high today it could have _killed_ you if you did not tell anyone. I do not understand you sometimes, Enjolras! Why won't you simply tell someone when you are ill, why won't you go to the doctor, why won't you accept help!? Is your pride really worth your life!?"

Enjolras frowned at Combeferre, his face cold and hard, like a stone statue. "No," he said flatly. "I do not want to make a fuss over something that does not matter."

"This does matter, Enjolras! This is serious! This could kill you for all we know!"

As if this had not been said at all, Enjolras went on calmly, "And I do not want to cause any trouble that will affect or delay the Revolution."

"The Revolution!?" Combeferre shouted, and he was about to cry, "Enjolras, your life is more important than the Revolution!" but then he remembered that they had already been through this conversation and that Enjolras did not agree with him. So instead he said, "You taking care of yourself when you are sick will not affect the Revolution, Enjolras. It will go one just as it would have. Our rebellion will be more successful if our leader is well and healthy."

"I promise you that I will be alright, Combeferre."

"Promise me that you will tell me if you get worse, again."

"I will tell you. I promise."

Combeferre felt a heavy burden lifted off of his shoulders; angels from heaven came down to him carried it away. He let out a deep sigh, and his hearted sighed, as well. "Alright," he finally agreed. "Get in bed."

"I will."

"And make sure you drink plenty of water. In your condition, it will be very easy to dehydrate."

"I will."

"If you are not better by Sunday, I want you to see a doctor. At least, to get some medication."

Enjolras was silent for a moment, but then he agreed. "Alright, Combeferre. I will see you tomorrow."

"I am going to come back tomorrow morning. …Just to check on you and make sure that you are alright."

"Very well, Combeferre. Then, I will see you in the morning."

Combeferre hesitated, reluctant to leave Enjolras alone. What if the fever returned during the night when he was asleep? No body would even know about it. In the morning, it might be too late. But what could he do? "Alright…" he finally sighed. "Goodnight, Enjolras."

"Goodnight, Combeferre."

When Combeferre had left, Enjolras drank a glass of water and blew out the candle that burned on the desk in the corner of his room. Then as he promised Combeferre, he climbed into his bed and eased his aching body down below the sheets. He rolled over onto his back and let out a heavy sigh when he felt his muscles relaxing as they sunk into the mattress below him. For a moment, he stared through the darkness of his room and gazed blankly at the ceiling above his bed. He was exhausted. He was weak. He was sick. He had not told Combeferre everything. He told him that he felt unwell. He did not tell him how truly miserable he was and had been for over a week. Enjolras let his head sink back into his pillow, and he closed his eyes. His next breath emitted as a soft moan.

He tried to sleep. But already, his aching stomach was thrashing around inside of his gut like an animal trying to rip out of a trap, twisting like a snake strangling its victim before it eats it, shooting with sharp pains like a knife stabbing him in the belly. These pains hit him suddenly, without warning, and painfully, so that Enjolras had to suppress weak moans and soft cries of pain. Enjolras felt his heart sinking, and his hopes fading. He knew that he was going to have to endure another long, sleepless, and painful night.

* * *

~Better Not to Know~

June 1, 1832. General Lamarque was dead.

The Friends of the ABC were in a meeting at the Café Musain, when a young urchin boy called Gavroche brought the news to their ears.

It was Friday evening. Schools let out and vast numbers of students flooded into the streets of Paris like thin streams flowing into a great river. Carrying their books in satchels slug over their shoulders or in piles tucked under their arms, walking slowly and leisurely as they talked with friends, or running on light feet hand in hand with their lover, passing beneath the pink and lavender painted sky, the glowing white sun as it lowered itself closer and closer to the Parisian rooftops, and bathing in the pale light of sunset, which colored buildings pink, reflected off the pavement, and illuminated the bodies of the students so they appeared divine like angels. Alone, in pairs, or in groups, they made their ways into favorite gardens or spots by the river, to cafés, pubs, bars, restaurants, theatres, or back to their homes to eat, to drink, to smoke, to chatter, to laugh, to whisper, to rest, or to sleep, alone or with the girl they had managed to bring home with them for the night. As usual, a rather large group of ten young boys made their way to the Café Musain.

Marius Pontmercy was late. After classes, instead of heading to the café with the rest of the boys, much to Enjolras's displeasure, Marius had set off to look for a girl whom he had fallen in love with. Enjolras started to argue with him, looking at him darkly and telling him that the Revolution was more important than women, or their individual lives, or even their lives, telling him that it was selfish to think otherwise. Then Combeferre intervened. Marius was now reluctant to leave, but Combeferre assured him that it would be alright. So Marius promised he would come later and he ran hastily down the street, disappearing into the crowds and the sunlight.

Courfeyrac—friendly, kind, compassionate, good, but brave, strong, and courageous at the same time—along with Feuilly—the only of the Friends of the ABC who was not a student but in fact a poor working man, a hardworking man, determined, brave, passionate, and a teacher of liberty—and Jehan—a gentle, quiet, shy, poet, obsessed with love, but just as ready to fight as the others—were preparing for the upcoming battles… whenever it was that the battles would come. Gathering weapons, preparing guns, searching for ammunition, they shuffled about the café, working tirelessly, doing everything in their power to ready themselves for an uprising.

Meanwhile, Bahorel—ready more than any to fight, brave, bold, even reckless and rash—and Bossuet—who was extremely unlucky but who always made merry of it, always laughing and joking, carefree, good humored, and good natured—were sitting at their own table laughing, drinking, and gambling over a game of cards. Joly—a young medical student like Combeferre, but unlike Combeferre a young hypochondriac, nervous, sickly, but nonetheless perhaps the most joyful—stood nearby with a mug in his hand and a cigar in his mouth, not playing with them but amusing himself by listening to their jokes and stories, laughing and teasing whoever lost the current hand, usually Bossuet who blamed it on his bad luck, and watching Grantaire—a drinker, a drunkard, a doubter, a cynic, a skeptic, a itinerate, a gambler, a libertine, a liar, and a sinner, who took great care not to believe in anything, not even the Revolution—intoxicate himself with alcohol as he tried his luck with a few young ladies who happened to be in the café that evening.

Enjolras was standing at his usual table before a large open window, through which one could see the street, the city, the sunset, and through which the warm, refreshing, and sweet-smelling breeze that blows through the last days of spring and the early days of summer rushed into the café. Books, documents, ink-covered pages, and a large map of Paris was spread out over the table before him, and he was studying it, looking for the best places to raise the barricades, planning for the rebellion, discussing weapons and such with Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Jehan. Today was Friday. Enjolras promised Combeferre that he would be well by Saturday. That was tomorrow. Enjolras did not appear himself. He still looked ill. There were still dark shadows beneath his eyes, and a tired, unhealthy look within them; his face was pale, hued by a grey shadow; and sweat could be seem glistening upon his face, his bare neck, and what was visible of his chest, which was rather unusual, because although it was warm, a breeze blew through the café making the temperature quite comfortable. Enjolras was acting, however, as if there was nothing wrong with him. He hurried around the café with excitement and with passion, and Combeferre, himself, almost thought that Enjolras had recovered. Almost.

Combeferre was at the same table with Enjolras but sitting in a chair rather than standing, and rather than examining the map and making plans, he was reading a book. Combeferre loved to read. He loved books. He read often in the café, so Enjolras thought nothing unusual of this. In fact, Enjolras hardly acknowledged Combeferre at all and did not bother to glance at the book in his hands. Not until Joly, who apparently had gotten bored of watching games that he was not playing in, drifted to that corner of the room and seeing Combeferre's book said in a carefree air, "I've read that book! That's a good book. Very informative, but I dare say dangerous."

Combeferre stopped read and peeked over his book to see Joly as he sat down in the chair beside him. "Dangerous?" he repeated confused. "How so?"

"Oh," Joly sighed as if recalling a sad memory, but he smiled at the same time. He shook his head and inhaled a breath of smoke through his cigar, a moment later, releasing it as well as a cloud of whirling grey smoke, which made the nearby Enjolras, who did not approve of any such immoral or inappropriate things as smoking, drinking, gambling, or manipulating woman, scrunch his nose and even tear his eyes away from his map to shoot a disapproving scowl in Joly's direction. "It's a silly thing, really," he went on, not noticing Enjolras's annoyance at his smoking. "That book is not only informative about every disease possible for a man to catch and every possible problem that could go wrong with his body, but it is also very informative about _how_ a man can obtain these problems. When I read it, I came to realize just what a dangerous world we live in. Just how dangerous Paris is itself, in fact! There is more disease in this city than there are rats! It makes one rather giddy." Combeferre nodded knowingly and returned to his reading. Joly had not developed hypochondria until he began studying to become a doctor.

"Sometimes better _not_ to know when you are going to die," another voice slurred, and as Combeferre and Joly turned their heads, Enjolras's head shot straight up, a look of scorn and disdain already on his face. "It is easier to die when you don't know it is coming."

"What do you want, Grantaire?" Enjolras snapped at the drunken man, looking at him with disgust, the way one might look at a worthless worm withering uselessly in the dirt. Walking as if the floor beneath his feet was moving, changing constantly, rolling like the waves in the ocean, Grantaire stumbled the few steps further to the table, and lost his footing. He might have fallen to ground if Combeferre did not jump to his feet, seize Grantaire by his shoulders, and push him into a chair. "At this table, we are making crucial plans of securing freedom," Enjolras went on, the look on his face growing even more displeased now that Grantaire was sitting with them, obviously planning to remain there for some time, "and being that you do not even support our cause, you are not one of us, and you have no business in joining us."

Grantaire turned his head to look at his leader, Enjolras, but it took a few seconds before he could focus his blurry eyes on Enjolras's face. A weak, sad, even pleading smile, the smile of the poor, penniless, homeless, breadless, child who begs hopefully and hopelessly for a rich passerby to throw him a spare sou so that he can eat that night, appeared on the drunkards lips. "I am one of you," he said, at last, speaking with both hope and hopelessness.

"You are not one of us," Enjolras immediately replied, harshly and pitilessly. "We believe in the Revolution, in freedom, and in sacrifice, in _giving our lives_ for something greater. We believe that our lives are wroth losing if freedom is worth gaining. You do not believe in anything."

Grantaire hesitated for a moment, and he gazed emptily across the table, out the open window, and into the city of Paris. It was clear in his red, wet, alcohol-stained eyes that he was thinking, considering Enjolras's words, deciding how to answer, debating what to say or what not to say. At last he decided and said softly in a voice like a child speaking hopefully and sadly to the father whose love he longed for but whose love he did not receive, "I believe in you."

Enjolras scoffed and rolled his eyes. "If that were true, drunkard, then you would prove it. You would be willing to risk something more than your bottle. You would not be so cowardly, so selfish, so lazy, and—"

"That is enough, Enjolras," Combeferre cut him off with a sharp and firm edge in his voice.

Enjolras cast a dark eye upon Combeferre, obviously displeased with him, but he obeyed him. Without another word or even a glance at Grantaire, he returned to studying his map and planning for the rebellion of which Grantaire did not believe in. He did not see the pained look that came over Grantaire's face as he raised his bottle to his lips and took another long sip.

Grantaire followed Enjolras. He respected him, admired him, esteemed him, loved him. He loved Enjolras the way the younger brother loves the elder: he looks up to him, through his years, he watches him soar high above him like an eagle through the heavens, he follows him, he strives, sometimes successfully sometimes not, to follow in his footsteps, he longs to be like him, and he wants nothing more than to make him proud. But Enjolras was not proud of Grantaire. Enjolras hated Grantaire. He hated him for everything that he did, everything that he did not do, everything that he believed in, everything that he did not believe in, everything that he was, and everything that he was not. Enjolras, pure, honest, strong, brave, good, hated Grantaire, who was sinful, dishonest, weak, cowardly, and who did not believe in anything.

Silence then fell over this table. Enjolras studied his map, Combeferre read his book, Joly smoked his cigar, and Grantaire drank from his bottle. They could all feel the tension, which always fills the silence that follows an argument, or fight, or hurtful words exchanged amongst friends, hovering over them and pressing around them like heat. For several moments, nobody knew what to say, but remained uncomfortably waiting in the silence.

"Well," Joly finally piped as if nothing had happed, "there is some truth to what you say, Grantaire. Sometimes it is easier not to know when you are going to die. For instance, if a man is infected with Cholera, he is going to die. There is no cure; there is no way to save him. If you were this man, would you rather the doctors tell you that you are going to die and bring that pain and fear upon you, or would it be kinder for them not to tell you and to let you be at peace for the last few days of your life?"

Joly finished speaking, and silence followed again. Enjolras went on with his work as if he had not hear Joly, picked a book off the table and began flipping through its pages, clearly showing the man that he was not listening to him, Combeferre looked dumbly at Grantaire waiting for him respond, and Grantaire took another drink from his bottle. When he forcefully swallowed the burning liquid down his throat, he blinked his eyes hard to clear them of the blurriness impairing his vision and the thin film forming over them, and looked at Joly. He hesitated before sighing and muttering, "I'm sorry, what? I missed that last bit about—"

"Oh, never mind that," Joly replied with a wave of his hand. "My point is if death is unavoidable, what you said is true. But if death can be avoided and a man can save himself from whatever is endangering his life, he should do whatever he can to save it."

"If a man can save himself from whatever is endangering his life," he echoed bewildered, and as if honestly making this mistake he asked, "Such as… a rebellion that is certain to fail?"

"How dare you, Grantaire!?" Enjolras, who apparently really _was_ listening to the conversation, cried, his head snapping up again and the book in his hands slamming down against the wooden tabletop.

"Enjolras, please!" Combeferre interrupted.

"No, not like that," Joly said indifferently.

"Then like what?" Grantaire sighed, raising his bottle to his lips again.

"Like your alcoholism, Grantaire!" Joly burst out, even more outraged and panicked because Grantaire was drinking even as Joly was trying to tell him not to. "Don't you know that alcohol can kill you!?"

Grantaire let out a frustrated sigh, suddenly annoyed and angry. "Yes, I know, Joly; you have told me about thirty times."

"Yet, you fail to listen to me! You continue to drink excessive amounts of alcohol!"

"That is because I am an _alcoholic_."

"So stop drinking!"

"It is not that simple."

"Why not!?"

"Because you do not know what it is like to be addicted to something."

Joly's eyes widened and he gasped as if suddenly realizing something that terrified him, "Grantaire, do you ever get pain here? In your upper left abdomen?"

Grantaire frowned confused. "Um... No? Why? What does that—"

"You might have developed cirrhosis of the liver! Do you know what that is? Your liver gets hard and turns like rock. You can get it from alcoholism! It kills you!"

"For God's sake, Joly! It is your hypochondria getting a hold of you, again!"

"No, I am serious about this, Grantaire!"

"I know! I am serious, too! Worry about your own liver, and leave _me alone._ "

" _My_ liver is not endangered by excessive alcohol consumption leading to deadly cirrhosis."

"Your cigars are probably just as bad. That cannot be good for your lungs. People have probably died from that, too."

Again, Joly gasped and his eyes widened. "Do you really think so!?" But before Grantaire could answer, he shook his head and dismissed this frightful idea from his mind. "Oh, do not be absurd!"

"You smoke; I drink. I don't bother you; you don't bother me. That way everybody is happy."

"I am only trying to help you, Grantaire! Listen to me!"

"Good Lord, Joly! You'll drive me crazy first."

"Grantaire, be serious!"

"Both of you, be quiet!" a third voice shouted over the first two.

At once, all voices fell silent and all eyes turned to Enjolras. He was glaring at Joly and Grantaire, his face red, flushed in anger, his brows furrowed, his chest heaving heavily, and his eyes burning with angry fire. Joly quickly recoiled and looked away, raising his cigar to his mouth to breath in another lungful of smoke but then remembering Grantaire's words deciding against it and smoothing his cigar on the surface of the table. Grantaire kept eye contact and waited for Enjolras to scold him, to yell at him, to call him worthless and send him away. But instead, Enjolras only returned to his business and said quietly, "Stop yelling. I have a headache."

Neither Grantaire nor the hypochondriac Joly thought anything of this. Enjolras was not sick but merely had a headache, because he was sick of hearing them argue, sick of the noise, and sick of their foolishness. But Combeferre, who had returned to his book and was doing his best to block out the argument of his bickering friends as he continued to read, looked suddenly up from the page and fixed his concerned eyes on Enjolras. Enjolras did not seem to notice this, or if he did, he was pretending that he did not.

So Enjolras _was_ still sick. He seemed to be better, but he was still unwell. Combeferre continued to gaze evenly at Enjolras, until the man finally glanced up to meet his eyes. In the brief second that they held one another's gaze, Enjolras understood what Combeferre was thinking, asking, and with a faint, barely noticeable shake of the head Enjolras told Combeferre that this headache was nothing to worry about, that he was not getting worse again, that he was alright. Combeferre returned an equally small nod and let out a soft sigh of relief. But he was still not convinced. He watched Enjolras for a minute longer as if trying to determine if he was being honest, before he returned to his book and continued to read more eagerly and more determinedly than before. He was reading this book not only because he was a medical student, as Joly supposed, but because he was trying to discover whatever illness had infected Enjolras.

The sun had set, night had fallen, and Marius had only arrived at the café minutes before, when they learned the grave news. General Lamarque was dead. Lamarque, the only man who still spoke out against injustice, who fought for freedom, who protected the people, who all the oppressed looked to, who the Friends of the ABC venerated, who was called the People's Man, was dead. He had been sick for quite some time, and he had been fading quickly. Despite the attempts of the doctors to save him, the countless doses of medication he in took, and the prayers his hundreds of grieving followers, the good man had died.

The little urchin boy, Gavroche, came into the café and said loudly over all noise in the room, "Listen to me! Listen, everybody!" The room fell silent and everyone, even the leader Enjolras, turned their eyes to this child and waited soundlessly for him to speak. A sad look came into the boy's eyes, and one could see that he did not quite know how to deliver the words that he had come to pronounce. They were too painful. "General Lamarque…" he finally said quietly, and many who heard him felt their hearts sinking into darkening and their hopes sinking into despair. They knew what was to come next. "General Lamarque is dead."

Sock. Sadness. Despaired. Defeat. How could one explain or even understand what followed this announcement? The loss. The grief. The pain. The last ambers of their spirits faded and went out, but the smoking remains of the fire continued to smolder. Time passed, there was silence, and almost at once, the fire was no longer burning out but igniting again. Out of the darkness, the shadows, the gloom of this tragic loss, came froth a flame, a fire of anger, of defiance, and of rebellion. The death of General Lamarque was the spark that kindled the souls of the people, and at last, they were ready to fight. The time had come. It was time for the Friends of the ABC to act, to rise, and to fight. It was time for the people to join them.

For the rest of the night, Enjolras was ecstatic. He bustled around the café making every preparation for the uprising, gathering weapons, collecting ammunition, preparing locations, speaking in a loud, clear, and strong voice, setting ablaze every soul in this café so they took wings and soared like a flaming phoenix above the clouds. His eyes were like the flaming torches of the angels burning with white fire, pure and good but capable of being terrible. Passion, hope, bravery, courage, and will radiated from his entire being. His face glowed as if with a light from heaven. Combeferre never could have guessed that he was sick, at all. In fact, he began to believe that Enjolras had truly recovered. Then, when Enjolras stood before the multitudes of people led a song of tomorrow and of freedom, his voice was like the hymns of angels, sweeping over Paris, soaring through the sky, and entering into the heavens. Combeferre believed it.

General Lamarque's death was a sacrifice that saved Enjolras's life. Lamarque had died, so Enjolras could live. He fell but only so others could rise in his place. Enjolras would rise. Enjolras would fight. Enjolras would lead the people to victory.

If only such a thing was possible.

* * *

~What is Most Important~

June 5, 1835. It was the morning of General Lamarque's funeral.

The rebellion would take place during the procession. It had been decided. During the funeral. That was when the people's hearts would be aching, and weeping, burning with anger, and beating with the courageous spirit of Lamarque. General Lamarque's soul, no longer in his body, would enter into the breasts of the people, and it would happen. A fire would sweep through them all, spread, and turn Paris into an inferno. The flame would be lit, the barricades would rise, and the gates of hell would be opened. The rebellion that had been conceived and gestating for so long would finally be born.

Enjolras and Combeferre were at Courfeyrac's house, preparing themselves—their clothing as well as their weapons—to enter the streets and behold the procession of their fallen general. Preparing for the battle that would follow. Marius had been there earlier in the morning but had left now, hoping to see his love Cosette one last time before… before the battle began and all else ended.

Enjolras was dressed in stark black trousers, black knee-high boots, a black waistcoat, a black tie around his neck, and a handsome red coat. Pinned to the front of his coat was a red, white, and blue pin, small, circular in shape, folded like a fan, the center ring blue, the middle white, and the outer red. Combeferre and Courfeyrac wore a pin identical to this on their fronts of their coats, as well. As did Marius and all of the Friends of the ABC. It was a symbol. A symbol of the revolution. A symbol as was the red flag that Enjolras had placed and readied in the Café Musain, where they would raise their barricade.

"Do you think they will rise?" Courfeyrac finally asked. It was the question that had weighed heavily over all of their minds and hearts ever since that night when General Lamarque had died.

"Of course," Enjolras answered calmly and certainly. He was standing before the closed window in Courfeyrac's apartment, his arms crossed over his chest, looking into the grey streets and watching the light rain hit against the dusty glass. "They will rise in the memory and in the name of General Lamarque."

"Today, yes. But I mean after that. What about tomorrow? Do you think the people will still be willing to fight? Or would they abandon us?"

"The people will rise," Enjolras said just as surely. "They will not abandon us."

"How can we be sure?"

"We cannot be sure. Just as we cannot be sure that we will win. But should that stop us from trying?"

"No, I suppose not," Courfeyrac agreed after a moment's hesitation. "But I was just thinking… wondering… Do you think… I suppose it does not matter…"

"All we can do is hope, Courfeyrac," Combeferre joined in quietly, and he offered his friend a gentle smile. "Hope and pray. And have faith! In God, in the people, and in each other."

Enjolras, who was still gazing steadily out the window as his friends conversed on the other side of the room, let out a heavy sigh. He knew the people would rise today. He had faith that they would rise tomorrow, as well, but he did not know for certain. The dark shadow that loomed over his heart told him otherwise. Something grave and ominous awaited them, standing before them hooded and cloaked, like death waiting to take them. Nevertheless, he was ready. He was ready to rise, ready to stand, ready to fight, ready to make whatever sacrifice for freedom. If it is what this meant, he was ready to die.

The time had come. The time that they had been waiting for for so long, at last, was upon them. The day was there. It was all about to begin. Thinking of what was to come, his heart began to beat faster perhaps with fear, with anxiety, but also with excitement, with passion, and with hope. His stomach began to turn and his insides twist as if they were alive. The anticipation was painful. It hurt his stomach. Enjolras hardly noticed this, because his entire being was focused solely on what was to come. He ignored the pain.

"Are you two ready yet?" Enjolras finally called to the others. He could not wait any longer. He could not just stand here and wait. Waiting for anything, anything good or anything bad, is torment. Waiting for some things is agony. Even if a man is waiting to die, instead than waiting for death he would rather death come and take him all the sooner. Waiting to die is more painful than death. Enjolras could hardly bare it anymore. He was ready. Whether tomorrow brought life or death, he was ready to face either one.

"Not quite yet," Combeferre's voice answer. "Besides, the funeral has not begun yet. There would be no purpose in leaving now."

"There would be no harm to get there early," Enjolras tried. "Or we could go to the café and make final preparations."

"We made final preparations last night," Courfeyrac added.

"One can never be too prepared."

"Just wait a little longer, Enjolras." Promised Combeferre, "It will all come in time."

As Courfeyrac and Combeferre resumed conversation, Enjolras was restless. He could not stand in one place anymore, just waiting. He let out a heavy sigh and subconsciously began pacing the room, moving back and forth along the wall opposite the other boys, watching his boots move over the wooden floorboards, occasionally glancing out the window as he passed it, but hardly seeing any of these things around him, his mind consumed by the thought of rebellion. The more he thought of it, the more rapidly his heart beat. He could feel the time drawling nearer every moment, and every moment his heart rate increased; as did the movement in his stomach. His intestines became snakes, and they were twisting around inside of him, slithering, coiling, fighting, attempting to strangle one another, sometimes striking, biting the insides of his belly and sinking their venomous fangs into his flesh, causing him great pain like that which of would feel if he were stabbed with the blade of a knife. He suddenly felt that he going to throw up, and he choked back the urge. Was he really that nervous? What was he afraid of? Enjolras told himself that he was not afraid, but yes he was nervous. He was very nervous. Passionate, enthusiastic, anxious, determined, and brave, but very nervous. He was not afraid of dying, but he was afraid. What was he afraid of? he asked himself again. Then he knew. He was afraid of seeing his friends die.

As he continued to pace around the room, but keeping a fair distance from Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Enjolras's red coat suddenly felt very hot over his body. As if the temperature had spontaneously leaped several degrees, he could feel sweat breaking out all over him, on his chest, his back, his face, the palms of his hands. His throat became very dry, to the point that his tongue and lips stuck to his gums and the roof of his mouth, he could not produce saliva, and it was difficult to swallow. His mouth and throat were parched and dry like the sands of a scorching desert, where it rains perhaps once a year.

Enjolras tried to get a hold of himself, drawing in and slowly letting out few deep breaths; but the action in his belly did not quiet in the least. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse. The pain was increasing and rising up inside of him, making its way into his chest, which tightened painfully as if there was a serpent constricting his lungs. It was becoming harder for him to breathe deeply… It was becoming hard for him to breathe, at all. He reached for the tie around his neck, fumbled with it for a moment, tugged on it with his hands, and loosened it around his throat, causing sweat to run down his neck and chest like the raindrops running down the glass window. It did not help.

Now, Enjolras did not understand what was wrong with him. Now, he was confused and concerned. He was scared. He was becoming very dizzy. He felt that the floor was uneven beneath his feet, and he stopped walking. A moment later, he felt that he might fall. He reached out his arm, pressed his hand against the wall, and leaned on it to steady himself. His head was pounding with pain and swirling with dizziness. His vision began to darken and blur. His hearing was not right, either. It was as if he was standing alone in a long, dark, tunnel. The only light that he could see was the dim glow shinning somewhere in the distance where the tunnel ended, and even this was fading. Any sounds he could hear echoed as if uttered far off, and he heard only faint, unclear, muffled sounds, as if the world was above water and he was under it, as if his friends who were standing only on the other side of the room were standing far away at the other end of the dark tunnel. But he could hear and feel his heart hammering against his skull like a mallet pounding a drum, as well as racing frantically in his chest. He could feel his body swaying, his arms trembling, and his legs getting weak. His vision was getting darker. His mind was getting dizzier. He could not breathe.

"Enjolras, are you alright?" he heard Courfeyrac's only vaguely concerned voice echo from somewhere far off within the darkness.

"Yes…" his own voice seemed to emit from the back of his skull, become trapped in the interior of the bone, and bounce around in his head. "I'm just…" He tried to swallow. "I'm just thirsty…"

Courfeyrac said something, but Enjolras could not make out his words. It sounded only like a muffled blur of noise, the letters and words jumbled together and mixed up. Then, Enjolras was sure that he heard Combeferre's voice, but he could not understand him either. Now, he could not see anything. For a moment, he could not breathe at all. If he tried to speak, he would not have been unable to do so.

Combeferre was saying something, but Enjolras still could not understand him. He heard Courfeyrac reply. They were discussing something, rather urgently it seemed, but he could not have guessed what they were saying. Then, their words were getting clearer, and easier to understand.

"Combeferre," Courfeyrac's voice franticly cried out, overcome with panic and fear, "what the hell is going on!?"

Combeferre, his voice just as afraid, immediately responded, "I'll explain later, just do as I say!"

"What is happening!? What's wrong with him!?"

"He is sick. Just bring some water! _Quickly!_ "

Enjolras opened his eyes, and the room around him slowly came spiraling into focus. He felt as if he had been staring up at the sky, arms outstretched, spinning around as fast as he could manage as he looked up at the clouds, and he at last had lost his balance and fallen. For several seconds, the world around him was moving. He heard these voices speaking, understood their words, but he did not comprehend what they meant. Then, as if emerging out from underwater, emerging out from unconsciousness and entering into reality, Enjolras awoke. With a jolt, almost a fright, he suddenly realized where was, what had just happened, what was going to happen in only a few minutes.

His head, his stomach, his entire body was aching, like the dull throbbing of a wound the day after it has been inflicted. He could feel a thin layer o f sweat sticking to his entire body, beads of it running down the back of his neck, his back, and his chest, and soaking his hair. His lungs were breathing deeply and quickly. He was staring at the peeling white paint that covered the ceiling of Courfeyrac's apartment. What? That did not make sense. He was lying flat on his back against the wooden planks of the floor.

 _What… How did I… What happened? What happened to me?_

Enjolras weakly lifted his head off of the floor and tired to sit up.

"Enjolras!" He turned his eyes and realized his best friend was kneeling down on the floor beside him. Combeferre's eyes were filled with panic and fear, and his face was troubled and terrified as he looked down at the confused and bewildered face of Enjolras. Combeferre reached out a hand and put it on Enjolras's chest to prevent him from sitting up. "Hold on, Enjolras," he said trying to keep his voice even and calm, trying not to let Enjolras hear his fear. "You are alright. You will be alright."

Enjolras frowned uncomprehendingly at his friend whose face looked down at him with fear and anxiety. "What…" he breathed through his dry lips. His usually strong voice was soft and weak. "What happened?"

"You're sick," Combeferre said in a flat, emotionless voice. "You need to drink something."

He barely finished saying this when Courfeyrac, his face just as pale, his eyes just as wide, just as scared as Combeferre, appeared and collapsed to the floor to kneel beside Combeferre. "Here, Enjolras…" He lowered a cup of water to his friend's lips. "You need to drink this."

"What happened?" Enjolras questioned again, but he did not receive an answer.

"Drink, Enjolras," Combeferre commanded urgently.

Enjolras tried to sit up again, but again Combeferre stopped him, and told him to drink lying down if he could. So Enjolras, utterly confused but deciding to obey, raised a hand and took the cup from Courfeyrac, carefully brought it to his lips, and took a small sip. The cool water—fresh, clean, pure—felt so good as he swallowed it down his parched throat. This water was like the first rain after a drought that revives, restores, and saves the dying lands, giving new strength and new life. But sometimes, the water is cursed.

Enjolras gratefully drank until the cup was empty. Then, Courfeyrac took it away to refill it, and Combeferre laid a gentle hand upon Enjolras's forehead.

"What happened?" Enjolras asked a third time.

"Courfeyrac, wet a rag in cool water and bring it over here," Combeferre called across the room. "He has a high fever." He turned back to Enjolras, and began unbuttoning the front of his red coat. "I need you to take your coat off, Enjolras," he explained as he helped Enjolras get his arm out of the sleeve. "Your temperate is much too high."

"Combeferre, what happened?" Enjolras demanded this time, raising his voice and speaking firmly almost angrily. He wanted an explanation. He wanted to know what was going on.

"You are sick, Enjolras," Combeferre said. "You passed out. Your body dehydrated. You have a high fever. You are very sick, Enjolras. You need to listen to me and do as I say."

So Enjolras lay still and silent on the floor, and he did whatever Combeferre told him to do. Combeferre kept pressing his figures against Enjolras's neck, telling him to hold still and checking his pulse. He kept asking Enjolras if he could breathe without difficult, asking him how much water he drank that morning, asking him if he felt nauseous, asking him how many times he had thrown up in the last few days, asking him to describe the pain in his stomach. Some of these questions made Enjolras uncomfortable and embarrassed, such as, how often did he have diarrhea, but he answered anyway, because he could see in Combeferre's alarmed face and his terrified eyes that something was very wrong.

Combeferre kept laying his hand on Enjolras's forehead and fretfully informing anyone who was listening that he still had a high fever. Enjolras's coat was already off, Combeferre laid a wet cloth over his forehead, and Courfeyrac kept bringing him water to drink, as they struggled to combat the fever. When it did not decrease quickly enough, Combeferre unbuttoned the front of Enjolras's shirt, and the brisk air hit his bare chest, turning his sweat cold and giving him goose bumps. Combeferre told him not to let his body shiver.

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre said quietly, and he turned to his friend who was perched anxiously on his knees beside him, like a bird ready to take flight at any moment. "I want you to go into the kitchen and prepare a bath with warm, not hot or cold, water." Courfeyrac nodded and got quickly to his feet, but Enjolras protested.

"Combeferre," he said, speaking with strength and authority as he did whenever he was leading the Friends of the ABC. "Combeferre, there is no time. General Lamarque's funeral will be starting in a matter of minutes. There is not time to spare."

"Enjolras, please…" Combeferre softly answered, closing his eyes and letting out a heavy sigh. "You are sick. You have a fever. We need to take care of you first."

Enjolras could hear, vaguely, distantly, only a soft echo, like distant footsteps, the drums beating, and he knew the procession was getting close. "There is no time, Combeferre!" he cried again. "If we wait any longer, we will miss it!"

Combeferre sighed again, and his heart and hope fell into darkness. He knew Enjolras would protest. He knew from the beginning that this was coming. He dreaded it. He hated to do it. He hoped, longed, prayed desperately that this moment would not come, but he knew that it would have to come. It had to come. He could not avoid it. Enjolras could not avoid it. This had to come. This had to happen. This had to be said. Combeferre had to tell Enjolras the truth.

"Enjolras…" When he looked into his best friend's eyes, Combeferre's face was dark, cold, and sad, and his eyes were hopeless, pained, agonized even. The eyes of a man who had to speak of a truth that was much too painful to speak of. Enjolras looked back into Combeferre's eyes, and he saw all of these things. He braced himself for the worst. He waited for Combeferre to go on. "You cannot go to General Lamarque's funeral."

"What?!" Enjolras cried out in outrage.

"Enjolras," Combeferre heavily began, closing his eyes and putting up a hand. "Before you argue with me, listen to me."

"Combeferre, do not be absurd! Of course, I can go! I have to go! The plan… the people… _The Revolution_ , Combeferre! I am going!"

"Enjolras, you are sick! You have a fever; you are dehydrated; your life is at stake, for Christ's sake! You cannot go! You are not going!"

"Who are you, my father!?" Enjolras snapped suddenly angry at his friend, speaking to him in the same scornful way he so often spoke to the drunkard Grantaire. "You cannot control me as if I am a child! I do as I please." Before Combeferre could stop him, Enjolras pulled himself off of the ground and sat up. Combeferre and Courfeyrac gasped and began to protest, but Enjolras ignored them both and went on. However, now his words were not so harsh and angry but sad, desperate, pleading, _begging_ even. "See? I am much better now. The fever has gone down greatly. I was dehydrated, but now I have drunk much water. I will be alright now."

"Enjolras…" Combeferre whispered, sadly shaking his head, but Enjolras cut him off and continued speaking.

"Combeferre, I will be alright. It will not be long anyway. Once the barricades arise, I will rest."

Courfeyrac almost laughed humorlessly as he cried out, "After the barricades arise, Enjolras, we will all be fighting in a goddamn battle! You cannot rest if you are leading a rebellion, Enjolras."

"This rebellion, Courfeyrac, is what we have been waiting for ever since a day several years ago when a small group of schoolboys pledged loyalty to the Revolution, formed a federation, and called themselves the Friends of the ABC!" Enjolras exclaimed. His voice was angry, outraged, but even more so, upset and pained. "I am going, Courfeyrac. Nothing either of you say, Combeferre, can change my decision. I am ready to die for our cause, as I thought we all were."

Combeferre and Courfeyrac could not have expected him to react any differently. This rebellion was what Enjolras had been hoping for, longing for, waiting for, preparing for, his entire life. He loved nothing so much as he loved France, as he loved the people, and as he loved a chance to win their freedom. He had waited for this day for so long. So many nights he had gone to sleep thinking about, planning for, and dreaming of this day. Yet, now that it had finally come, his two best friends were telling him that he could not do it. He could not do what Enjolras was conceived was the sole reason for his life. While all of the others, all of the people, all of his friends, all of the Friends of the ABC, were at General Lamarque's funeral, in the streets fighting for freedom, risking their lives under Enjolras's name, they wanted him, their leader, their Chief, the instigator of all of this, to stay home, locked safely inside his room, soaking in his bathwater. No! Enjolras would not stand for such a thing. He would not allow it. It was him who started this. He was going to finish it.

"Enjolras, if you are sick like this, you cannot take part in the rebellion. You simply cannot."

"I will be alright, Combeferre!" Enjolras said again. "I promise! Remember, I promised you that I would be alright? I will be! You will see…"

"Enjolras, you told me that you were better now! You were wrong, Enjolras. You _lied!_ You could have died if Courfeyrac and I were not here!"

Enjolras frowned. "Let me alone, Combeferre. You are beginning to sound like Joly."

"And you are beginning to sound like Grantaire!"

At this, at the very suggestion that he was anything at all like that drunkard, a look of scorn and disgust came over Enjolras's face and he scoffed. "Let me alone," he muttered again, and despite Combeferre and Courfeyrac's resistance, he got to his feet and stood. For a moment, his head spun with dizziness and his vision fogged and began to darken, his legs trembled, his body wavered, and he feared him might fall again. But the moment passed and he could see and think clearly again. Ignoring whatever his friends were saying to him, he buttoned up the front of his shirt, snatched his coat from, Combeferre, and slid it over his arms. He raised his eyes and looked at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who were watching him with distress and fear. "I am going to the funeral now," he announced coldly. "If you two would like to join me, you are welcome to come along. If not, then I will go alone." Enjolras turned his back on them and began to leave.

"Enjolras! Enjolras, wait!" Combeferre got quickly to his feet and hurried after his friend, who was already at the door and beginning to open it. He caught Enjolras by his arm and stopped him from going any further. "Enjolras, look at me."

Enjolras, his hand still gasping the doorknob and holding the door open, turned on the spot so abruptly he startled Combeferre. He looked into his friend's eyes, and said calmly, strongly, certainly, "Do not trouble yourself about me. Trouble yourself about the rebellion. The Revolution is more important than any one man. I am going to battle, now, Combeferre. You and Courfeyrac can come with me if you still wish to. If we stay together we are stronger. Come with me."

At this moment, Combeferre wanted nothing more than to give in, to believe Enjolras's words, to follow him out into the street, to fight for freedom with the Friends of the ABC as they had planned for so long, to think only of the Revolution like Enjolras, and to forget about everything else. But he could not. He could not, because he knew the truth. He knew the truth that Enjolras did not know. Had he not know this, he would have believed Enjolras. He would have agreed, and he would have gone to fight. He would have entered the street with confidence, courage, bravery, strength, and joy. But Combeferre did know. And so, he could not believe Enjolras. He could not forget. He could not follow his leader into the street.

He opened his lips and tried to say what he had to say. But instead, all he could manage was a faint, weak, whisper. "Enjolras, please," he begged, and for a moment, he could feel tears pressing against the corners of his eyes, trying to break free. He held them back. "Please, stay…"

"No," Enjolras said curtly. "Do not worry about me. I will be alright."

He still did not know. He had no idea. If Combeferre told him now, it would hit him like a bullet that he never saw coming. It would pierce him, fell him, bleed him, and kill him. "Enjolras…" Combeferre managed to whisper as he looked into his friend's eyes and slowly, sadly shook his head.

"I will be alright, Combeferre. I—"

"Enjolras…"

Enjolras fell silent. For the first time, he noticed the grave, the bleak, the desolate tone in his friend's usually comforting and faithful voice. He noticed the grim, the dark, the cold, shadow that masked his usually warm and kind face. He noticed the tears in Combeferre's eyes. Enjolras felt his heart turn cold. It was early summer, but as if all of the warmth, light, and happiness of the season were trampled upon, assaulted, and crushed by winter's cold, bitter, and merciless cold, darkness, and power, it was winter again.

Enjolras hesitated. His first was stiff, as if sculpted of stone, on the doorknob and the door agape, standing still as if something frightened it from opening any further. Enjolras did not move, but continued to stare at Combeferre, waiting. He was waiting for his friend to go on, but he knew that Combeferre was waiting for him first to give the order. So Enjolras let out a heavy breath, braced himself for whatever was to come, and asked, "What? What is it, Combeferre?" Now, his voice was almost as soft as Combeferre's.

"Enjolras…" Combeferre drew in a deep breath, let it out, and braced himself as well. This had to be done, he told himself. Enjolras had to know. He had a right to know. His voice was quiet, weak, and shaky when he forced himself to go no, "Enjolras, I need to tell you something…"

Enjolras's arm went limp, and his hand fell by his side. He hesitated only a moment longer. He turned momentarily away from Combeferre, and closed the door behind him. Wordlessly, he returned his gaze to his friend, and he stepped away from the door. Enjolras looked at Combeferre's face, staring straight into the familiar eyes that stared straight back into his. He gritted his teeth and said softly, "Tell me."

Combeferre parted his lips to speak. No words came forth. He stood lost, helpless, and scared before his friend, mute and speechless. He could not bring himself to say it. He knew what he had to say, but how could he say it? How could he put this terrible truth into words? Cruel words that would threaten to destroy everything? How could Combeferre say this? How could he bring himself to say it and not break his already broken friend? How could he be so cruel as to tell Enjolras? Yet, would it not be even crueler not to tell him? Now, he did not know. He did not know anything anymore.

Combeferre then remembered what Grantaire said a few days prior in the café. At the time, he had paid no heed to the man's drunken, barely-intelligible words, but now, Combeferre knew they were true. Grantaire was right. Sometimes, it is better not to know. Easier. Yes, he decided, it was easier not to know…

"Combeferre, tell me," Enjolras repeated. This time he spoke a little more firmly, a little more bravely, a little more certainly. Somehow, his voice was comforting. Combeferre did not know what to do, but his friend, his brother, his leader, Enjolras was calling to him with confidence, make the choice for him. Just as he would have followed Enjolras into battle yesterday, Combeferre would follow Enjolras now.

Combeferre could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his lungs panicking. He did not want to do this. No, he had to. He struggled to pull a deep breath into his lungs and force it out heavily. "Enjolras," he began, trying to keep his quivering voice steady. "You know I am not a doctor. You know I am still a student. But as soon as I realized that you were sick, I knew. I cannot explain how, but just _knew._ I knew in my heart that something was wrong. Terribly wrong." He had to take another shaky breath before he could go on. Enjolras waited patiently. Silently. Listening. Anticipating. Waiting.

"Since that night," Combeferre grudgingly continued, but his voice was surprisingly calm now, flat, emotionless, lifeless, "I have been reading books… medical books, that is. I am not a doctor, but I know why you are sick, Enjolras… I know what is wrong." Combeferre was surprised that he felt so little, now. He hardly felt anything. It was as if his soul, full of fear, and grief, and pain, was gone now; and all that remained to fill him was cold emptiness. A dark pit in the earth. A coffin absent of a body. A corpse deprived of life. "Enjolras, you have cholera."

Enjolras did not reply. He did not react. He continued to gaze at his friend with the same stern, hard, unreadable face. Enjolras was like a stone monument of a great warrior from ages past. When one looks upon the monument that was built in his name, only a pillar of rock left to remember this man's life, legacy, and soul, and he looks upon the marble face, he sees the exterior but nothing more. He cannot see past those cold, stone eyes. He cannot read the man's face. He cannot know the man's thoughts. Now, it was Combeferre who was waiting for Enjolras to speak.

"Cholera?" Courfeyrac's breathy voice finally broke the silence, the young man unable to remain quiet, unable to wait any longer. His voice became even more afraid as he whimpered, "Combeferre, are you sure?"

"Yes, I am sure," Combeferre said grimly, not looking at Courfeyrac, not taking his eyes off of Enjolras. "I wish I was not."

"Combeferre!" Courfeyrac cried out, his voice cracking as tears flooded into his eyes but did not spill over. "How do you know!?" he demanded, angry, shouting as if accusing Combeferre of lying intentionally.

"Courfeyrac, I know!"

"How!? You do not know that! You are not a doctor! How does someone get cholera? Enjolras has not been around anyone with it, have you Enjolras?"

Before Enjolras could answer the question that he did not know the answer to, Combeferre said, "Cholera is not like that. That is not how you get it."

"Then how do you get it?"

"By drinking contaminated water."

"What?! Combeferre, we just gave him a ton of water to drink! How do we know that it isn't—"

"We don't know, Courfeyrac! There is no way to know. You and I both drank water from that same well yesterday and this morning, so if it is contaminated, we will all be infected. That does not matter. Enjolras has cholera, and many people who get it die of dehydration. Enjolras, it is extremely important that you drink lots of water, and we have to make sure to keep your fever under control, do you understand?"

Enjolras did not reply. He did not appear even to have heard the question. He gazed meditatively across the room for a long time, before he finally spoke, "Cholera…" He was silent for a moment longer, clearly thinking but betraying no indication of his thoughts on his stone face or in his cold eyes. A moment later, he opened his lips and continued as if indifferent, "Very well. How is it cured?"

Combeferre felt his heart sinking even deeper into the smothering black depths of the ink abysses that his soul had become. He forced himself to go on. "Enjolras, there is no cure."

"There is no cure…" he echoed, and he could fell his stomach dropping within his gut.

Ice was forming like frost over Enjolras's heart. He was hot and sweating a moment before, but now he could feel the icy breath of winter—or of Death—rasping down his neck and back, creeping up from behind him so he would not see him coming. A chill like the winds in the snow storm that buried, traps, and crushes hundreds of people while they are still alive came over Enjolras's body. His flesh crawled, goose bumps broke out all over his body, the hair stood up on the back of his neck, his stomached began to twist painfully again, his heart—nearly frozen now—stopped. He felt as if his organs were shutting down, going numb, freezing, as if he was freezing to death. So, Winter and Death were allies.

Combeferre woefully shook his head. "No. That is why General Lamarque died."

"General Lamarque…" Enjolras vaguely heard his own voice repeat, and somewhere across the room, he heard Courfeyrac cry out in anguish. Enjolras's throat tightened as if a pair of strong hands was around his neck, slowly strangling him. His lungs were beginning to panic inside of his ribcage. He could hear his pulse pounding in his temples again. The heart in his chest had turned into stone.

Then, Combeferre was saying, "Enjolras, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Enjolras. I wish… If I… If I could take your place I would do it in a heartbeat… You know that… Enjolras, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

He was going to die. Enjolras was not afraid to die. If he had been in the battle, if he had been taken by the army, if he had been forced to stand before a line of loaded guns, and if he knew that he was about to be executed, Enjolras would have accepted his faint as willingly and as fearlessly as a man could have accept the macabre fact that he is going to die. But when the guns fired and the bullets hit him in his chest, piercing his lungs and his heart, the impact, the shock, the pain would have stupefied him, paralyzed him, and caused him to fall. If he was fighting in the battle and the bullet hit him the back before he even saw it coming, the shock, the fear, and the pain would have been even more terrible. This was bullet that pierced Enjolras now, eight bullets at once. He staggered for a moment as he tried to swallow Combeferre's words, the truth, the pain.

"How long… How long have you known?" Enjolras finally managed to choke out.

"Five days ago," Combeferre answer miserably. "The morning before General Lamarque died, we were in the café, and Joly said something about cholera… By the end of the night, I knew…"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Enjolras barely whispered.

"Because then you seemed so much better," Combeferre whimpered. "I thought… I thought that, maybe, I was wrong… Or I thought that, maybe…" His voice became so soft, so tremulous, and so broken, that he seemed on the verge of tears. "…the Lord in His great mercy had answered my prayers and had healed you with His saving touch…" Combeferre collapsed down into a chair, his arms rest on his knees, he bent over as if in prayer, his head fell forward and hung as if he was dead on a cross, and all he could do was whisper was, "Enjolras, I am sorry… I should have told you… I'm so sorry…" He fell silent. So did the room. For a moment, so did the world.

Enjolras stood still before the closed door, before his grieving friends, before Death who, no doubt, was present in the room, just waiting for a chance to take Enjolras, when he was at his most vulnerable, when a fever was upon his, when he was unconscious on the floor of his friend's apartment, or at night when he was asleep and alone in his bed. He would never see Death coming. He would not be able to fight him. He might not even feel the cold sting of Death's black blade as he dragged it slowly across the dying man's throat. Enjolras simply would not wake up the next morning.

Enjolras did not know how long the silence lasted. How long he stood here. Waiting. At last, he could hear the drums of the funeral procession getting closer, and he knew that, in minutes, General Lamarque, asleep in his casket, would be passing on this street. If they stood still any longer, it would be too late. Without a word, Enjolras walked slowly across the room. Combeferre and Courfeyrac watched him silently, no longer fighting him, no longer trying to interfere, but only watching, waiting to see what their leader was going to do. Perhaps, whatever he chose, they would allow it, now. Now, they were all of them too weak to resist whatever was to come.

Enjolras crossed to a table where they had left their satchels that the students used to carry their books at school. But now, instead of books, these innocent bags were packed with weapons that could murder. Wordlessly, Enjolras found his satchel, took it into his hands, unfastened and flipped open the cover, reached into the bag, and, when he withdrew it, clasped tightly in his hand was a gun.

Combeferre's eyes fell upon this mortal weapon in his friend's fist, and his heart flinched like a creature expecting pain. "Enjolras?" he heard his own voice cry as he rose to his feet. "Enjolras, what are you doing?" He was afraid, and panicked, and desperate. It was a foolish thought. Enjolras was strong. He was brave. He was not one to give up. Combeferre knew this. Enjolras would never have done what Combeferre feared he was about to do right before his eyes. But in his distress, horror, and brokenness, Combeferre feared that Enjolras was going to put the gun to his own head, pull the trigger, and kill himself. He was wrong. When Enjolras did nothing of the sort, Combeferre let out a heavy sigh of relief. Without a word, Enjolras turned his back to Courfeyrac and on Combeferre and, his gun in hand, he headed for the door. "Enjolras…" Combeferre asked again. "Enjolras, what are you doing?"

"Where are you going?" Courfeyrac added, almost at once.

"Enjolras!" Combeferre leaped to his feet, ran after his friend, and caught him by his arm to stop him. "Enjolras, what are you doing?"

Enjolras turned around. His eyes found his friend's, and they gazed into the depth of one other's eyes, seeing all of the sadness, the torment, the pain, the memories, every moment that they had ever passed together, side by side planning for the rebellion, talking quietly as friend, helping and comforting one another as brothers.

"You are not…" Combeferre began confused and afraid. "You are not still going to the barricades, are you, Enjolras?" Before Enjolras even opened his lips, Combeferre knew the answer, because he could see it in his friend's ever-burning eyes. In his eyes, there was fire. Certainty. Strength. Courage. Enjolras was still certain. He was still strong. He was still ready to die. But he was ready to die for France, not for himself.

"Combeferre…" Enjolras said quietly but bravely. He turned his eyes to look at Courfeyrac, who was standing across the room, tears finally spilling out of his eyes. "Courfeyrac…" Enjolras spoke his name with a strong, reassuring, comforting nod. He looked at Combeferre again, again looking into the eyes of his brother. Enjolras was an only son, but friendship made Combeferre no less a brother than could have blood. He held the gun out to him and pushed it into Combeferre's hand. Combeferre hesitated standing still, scared, afraid, not knowing what to do. But as he looked into Enjolras's eyes, he saw the passion, the courage, the strength, the certainly. His hand slowly closed around the gun.

A shadow of a smile appeared on Enjolras's lips, and he nodded. "Come on, Combeferre. Our people need us."

 _The End_


End file.
